


Finding a Home

by alltoseek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catlock, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is advised to get a pet, and soon finds himself on a fantastical adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding a Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thegameison_sh](thegameison_sh.livejournal.com) [prompt](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/39939.html) "Make One Change".

“John,” said Ella, “adjusting to civilian life, living alone, is understandably difficult. You're separated from your mates in Afghanistan; you're estranged from your family here. I honestly think that having a pet will help you.”

John thumped his cane, regarding her doubtfully.

~o~

Returning home, he limped past a former schoolmate. Mike Stamford, chubbier than ever and just as cheerful. A couple of lattes later and Mike said, “You look like you could use a bit of cheering up.”

John frowned. “My therapist thinks I should get a dog.”

“Yeah? She's probably right. Studies have shown that pets improve people's health – lower rates of depression, increased longevity.”

John was sceptical. “I have enough trouble managing my own life. How am I supposed to take care of some poor animal?”

“Huh,” chuckled Mike.

John frowned again, “What?”

“That reminded me of something a colleague said to me this morning. Come on, I'd like you to meet her anyway. She's nice – and pretty!”

~o~

Mike found Molly in the lab at St. Bart's. She was holding a very distressed-looking cat in her arms. “Oh, come _on_ , Sherlock! I'm trying to help you, but I can't if you keep squirming so!”

Introductions came between loud alarmed yowls from the Siamese; Molly smiled briefly at John, clearly distracted by the writhing animal. “Mike, help me with him?”

Mike backed away. “Can't, sorry – allergies.”

John stepped forward. The cat had worked one foreleg through its collar, now twisted so tight Molly couldn't undo it. “He always fights them,” she explained. “But he's always escaping out onto the streets, so I want him to wear a collar in case someone finds him. Also to protect the birds, you know. I thought I'd finally found one he couldn't slip out of, but poor thing – this is worse!”

John could sympathise with a creature who didn't like collars. He pulled out his penknife. “You hold him; I'll cut it off.”

The cat stilled as John's hand approached his head. He sniffed John's fingers thoroughly, then stared at him with piercing blue eyes. Deftly John slid the knife between the collar and the animal, careful to keep the sharp edge facing away from the animal. “Got it,” he said triumphantly.

Sherlock stepped gracefully away from Molly's hold and the ruined blue strip. Still peering at John, he began to sniff him all over.

Molly binned the scrap, saying, “Wasn't I just telling you this morning he's impossible to take care of?” she asked Mike rhetorically.

“Yes,” laughed Mike, “yes, you were!”

“I can't keep him, and I haven't been able to find anyone to take him, either!”

Sherlock, meanwhile, had braced his forepaws against John's shoulder, the better to sniff his ear and hair. John absently stroked the sleek animal's fur while the cat mrowwed conversationally.

Mike smiled at John, “Well?”

John started. “Well what? Wait – me?”

Suddenly the door opened to admit a man prematurely grey with haggard brown eyes in a trench coat and rumpled suit. “Hooper – do you have those results yet?”

Molly jumped, “Oh yes, inspector! Right here.” She led the way to another table where a file lay open. Sherlock abandoned John and leapt carelessly to where Molly and the DI were huddled over the file. The cat sniffed at the file as if he could read it through scent, then scrutinised and sniffed the DI as well.

“Go on, cat,” said the man, shooing it away. He picked up the file, said a brief thanks, and was out the door.

Molly turned back to John. “So, you'll take Sherlock, then, Doctor?”

“Well, I... I – Where did he go, anyway?”

The three of them looked around. The Siamese was nowhere to be seen.

“Scarpered again!” cried Molly. “He must have slipped out with the detective inspector. You'll have to hurry, Doctor, catch him!”

Without quite understanding why, or how, John found himself running down the hallways of Barts, chasing after a cat he'd just met.

He thought he'd caught up to the creature just before the main door, but no luck; the animal slipped out just as it was closing. John yanked it open and sped after the animal, now dashing down the pavement.

The Siamese led the doctor on a merry chase through the City, around corners and through alleys. Whenever John thought he'd managed to catch up, the infernal creature would slip through; likewise, if John thought he'd lost the animal altogether, he'd find it 'round the next corner, paused for emergency grooming. Mid-lick, it would freeze and stare at John, then dash off again.

When it leapt up the side of a building, ricocheting off a window ledge to reach the fire-escape stairs, John thought he'd lost the cat for good, but he discovered that if he climbed atop the skip in the alley, then launched himself at the stairs, he could just nick the last step to drag it down. He clambered up the four flights just in time to see the Siamese leap gracefully to the next roof over.

John walked to the edge and gauged the distance. Iffy. There was the cat, blinking at him smugly.

John sighed and backed up a few paces. Running, he launched himself over the gap. Startled, the cat scurried into a ventilation shaft.

John peered down the opening. “Oi, cat!” He couldn't see a thing. _What was the damn thing's name?_ “Sherlock! Sherlock, you alright?” _What the hell?_ he thought to himself. What on earth am I doing?

He called a few more times. Nothing. He stood and looked around, hoping for inspiration. Then he heard the cat yowling. Loud Siamese howls, echoing painfully through the shaft. Heart suddenly pounding again, John ran to the roof access door. Locked. He found the fire-escape stairs for this building and raced down them. Running around to the front he was about to pull open the main door when a police officer stopped him. “Hey! What's your business here?”

“It's my cat,” John panted. “He's trapped inside.”

“Your cat?” said the officer sceptically. “Sir, no one's been in or out of the building for several days. It's a crime scene. There's no cats.”

“My cat just went in – ventilation shaft – roof!” John exclaimed. “He's hurt, or trapped, or something. Can't you hear him carrying on?”

The officer frowned at him, but miraculously, there was a momentary hush in the constant traffic noise of back-up beeps, horns, and lorry engines. In the relative quiet the muffled howls of a very agitated Siamese came through clearly.

Frowning even more deeply, the officer held up her radio. “Sir, there's a man out here says his cat's inside the building.”

“ _Thank god,_ ” came the answer. “ _Tell him to come get the wretched thing._ ”

She jerked her hand but John was already through the door. He was told to suit up then sent up the stairs. Following Sherlock's cries, he entered a room where he saw the same detective from Barts.

“Oh, don't tell me – it is Sherlock. I should have known,” said the DI, rolling his eyes. “How'd you let him sneak in here, anyway? And so soon?”

“I – I didn't let him anything – I've been chasing him all over London! God knows why – he's not even my cat!”

“Well, see if you can track him down, anyway. He's stuck in the walls somewhere, but every time we think we've got him, he's moved off somewhere else.”

John called out to Sherlock, and listened to his answering meows, which now sounded less upset and more conversational. Together they tracked him down to a section of wall that sounded more hollow than the rest when they knocked on it. Sherlock yowled encouragingly. One of the techs pried off the panelling. 

There was the cat, sure enough, but not looking particularly grateful at his rescue. Instead, he was curling a paw around a loose bit of board dividing his space from the next section, also behind the wall.

“Alright, cat, you've had your fun. Move along now.”

 _Flap, flap, flap,_ went the board.

John bent to pick him up. As he grabbed the animal, the Siamese yowled loudly and grasped the board with both front paws. It tore as John stood up, the cat held securely. 

At the same time, they could all hear a loud shuffling noise in the section still hidden behind the wall. Everyone stilled.

“Bring me a torch,” ordered Lestrade. Shining it through the gap caused by the torn board, they saw a shod foot and trouser-covered leg.

~o~

“...and that turned out to be the actual murderer, or victim, rather – something about self-defence,” John explained to his therapist the following week. Sherlock lounged in his lap, purring contentedly, whilst his companion stroked him gently.

“Quite the intriguing animal you have there,” said Ella. Sherlock looked at her, and then blinked once, very slowly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Losing a Home (The Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682148) by [Lindentreeisle (Captainblue)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captainblue/pseuds/Lindentreeisle)




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